A War of Love and Beauty
by Kimmae
Summary: "He has a song. He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire." He had turned to look out the doorway and stare into nothing rather than her eyes. "There must be one more. The dragon has three heads." The story of how one decision uprooted a kingdom and lit fire to rebellion. These are the events leading up to and following Robert's Rebellion. WIP.
1. Prologue

_This work is based off of the series of George R. R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire. _The characters and events within are based off of conjecture and conversations between the characters in the first five books. I claim no rights to the universe, the characters, or the events. I'm here for kicks._

_This is a WIP and is subject to change. Should you, oh dearest reader, find something in my storytelling you know goes against some obscure fact that has somehow slipped past my notice, light your torches, sharpen your pitchforks, and politely leave me a message or review dictating the error._

_Or, you know. Just enjoy._

A War of Love and Beauty

by: Kimmae

**PROLOGUE**

"My lady, the gods have granted you a prince," said a voice from very far away.

Elia tried to open her eyes but found them too heavy. When she swallowed it hurt, for her throat was dryer than the desert of Dorne. "Has someone given me milk of the poppy?" she tried to ask. She sounded more like a frog than the High Septon did.

"Yes, my lady," Grand Maester Pycelle said, his warm breath like soured milk on her face, "I ensured the birth went smoothly and at no more cost to your health."

Her mother's midwife had learned her trade from the orphans of the Greenblood, who knew how to birth a child better than half the men in Westeros knew how to make one properly. Milk of the poppy was a dangerous thing to give a woman in childbirth; with an unconscious mother, you may as well be delivering the baby deaf and blind. Niery had helped birth Rhaenys, Elia's firstborn, and would have known what to do for her son, but after Elia was bedridden for half a year from the birth, her midwife had been sent back to Dorne under accusation of incompetency, leaving Elia with the old man with the clammy touch that lingered.

But for now she was alive, and so was her child. "May I see him?" She still couldn't even open her eyes, but she could not ignore the yearning to at least be near him.

"I must advise you do otherwise, my lady. You need to rest first. Much of your strength was drained in the process. Do not worry, the child is being kept after by the wet nurse. He is well."

"I did not permit a wet nurse." The commanding tone she heard in her head was a sticky rasp on her lips. She tried to repeat herself and was interrupted.

"I will bring you hearth's kindle"—she tried to shout at him not to, for she wanted nothing else from this man, but found she was growing quieter—"and bring you some liver and garlic for energy."

Though he walked slower than a turtle and spoke slower still, he was gone before Elia could put one word of protest together. She wanted to be angry, but was quickly realizing the effort of breathing alone was trying.

She could feel cloths bunched up between her legs. With thick and clumsy fingers she reached down to feel. They were very warm and very wet.

"No, my lady," her companion Dahlia whispered in her firm voice, gently taking her hand away. The cloths were removed and more were applied. A down-filled blanket was placed over her, and Elia noted it felt far heavier on her chest than she ever recalled.

"I'm going to bleed to death," Elia croaked, then slipped away.

She did not recede into complete darkness. Again she was on the road through the kingswood, her procession spreading before and after her. Rhaenys was on her lap and her son was in her belly, and the carriage house was gliding smoothly. Then the horrible jolt and drop.

Rhaenys had _screamed_. It was the scream that got louder and shriller as Elia dreamed a terrible, bloody scene. It wasn't blood from her men and women being assaulted by brigands, but her blood, blood pouring out from her middle, her son's blood smeared over the dirt.

She had seen the Smiling Knight that day. And there he was in her dream now, standing at the door of her carriage while demons swept in and covered everything in darkness. His smile got wider and wider as his scars split open from mouth to ear.

"My lady, I believe you need a maester's attention," he said, as a cascade soaked her skirts.

She startled herself awake. Had that been her hoarse shout she just heard? The Grand Maester was hovering over her again, this time with another maester busying himself with a kettle and cloth to the side of the bed.

"Not too quickly, my lady," Pycelle said. She sat up gingerly, feeling every bone and joint ache with the effort. It felt as if a small rodent had made a nest in her mouth and a bog was forming in her hair.

"How long have I been asleep?" she asked, finding it easier to speak than before. It was bright enough in the room that she had to squint, and favoured herself looking like a cave shrew.

"A day, only. If it please you, Lady Elia, I shall explain your condition."

Even though she could feel her condition plain enough all over, she needed to hear it aloud. She gave a small nod and looked to her lap. "Yes."

The Grand Maester cleared his throat (or was that a great, dramatic wheeze?) and began to shuffle closer. "There was a rupture while the young prince was being born. Terrible, I must say. You suffered a great loss of blood, but we were able to staunch it by natural methods. Your companions were of much help but we eventually sent them away. They were tired, and there is only so much prayer at the bedside can do for a mother. Maester Yevan assisted me in concocting hearth's kindle to remedy your injuries. The wound is now healing, however I must strongly suggest that you stay to your bed for the time being. We cannot risk activity otherwise."

For his entire drawling speech, she stared at her hands over the duvet. "I wish to see my son."

"Yes, yes, of course. We thought you might like to be refreshed first. We can call upon your companions to give you the attention you require."

"You thought sincerely, it would seem, Grand Maester, but I do not wish for a bath now."

"My lady, it is not best to see him now. You have been through much these past days. Far too much. Horrible, indeed."

She was on her way back to King's Landing from the Water Gardens of Dorne, where she presented her daughter to her brothers and their families. She had not seen them since she was first married. Now she was starting to have nieces and nephews, and the first was just old enough to hold Rhaenys herself. It had been so surreal to be there; nostalgia filled her heart and she felt happier than she had for nearly a year. When the time came to return, she had wanted to cry, but held her tears close. They were nearly back in the capital when the Kingswood Brotherhood happened upon them in the forest; one of the horses of her house carriage was shot down. When the Lord Commander Gerold Hightower leapt out he was caught in fight almost immediately, and eventually took an arrow through the hand. Several men and a woman flung themselves onto her carriage and swept up her belongings so quickly. One of them stole jewels right off her fingers, giving her hand a kiss. Her water broke right then. As the thieves fled the carriage, she saw him standing there…that horrible scarred face. Rhaenys had been screaming so loudly. Elia's uncle Ser Lewyn of the Kingsguard was with them, and instead of giving chase made a hasty escape to get his niece to the maesters. Rhaenys was safe, her uncle was safe, but…

"Is my son not well?" Normally Elia spoke to this man with the smallest amount of courtesy necessary, but this time there was a pleading in her voice, the vulnerability many seemed to tack on her.

"Your son is fine and is being cared for. I assure you, he will grow to be a fine young prince. No ailment befalls him."

"Then bring him to me."

Pycelle's face was three-quarters billowing beard, but she could still see the look in his eye. She did not wait for him to offer. "What is it?"

"I must tell you, my lady. This last birth was truly a trial on you. Your life was in danger. The damage that was done caused an irreparable rift. I am truly sorry, but the gods have seen to it that you will no longer be able to bear His Highness any more children."

There was a sudden sinking in her chest, though she was not sure if it was from the startling news or from the fact that she had to hear it from this man she disliked so. A bubble of anger rose up in her…and quickly dissolved into a dull ache that was washed away once she thought of her son. It didn't matter, for her babies here and were alive and well. She nodded.

The Grand Maester babbled on some more but Elia droned him out until he left. The quiet maester stayed behind. Ever since she was young she had someone hovering close to her, never letting her on her own. She knew it was for the safety of her life, but solitude was a luxury she sorely missed.

Much to her relief the Grand Maester came back with three of her companions—Faewyn, Ashara, and Dahlia, all dressed in their finest with their hair made anew—and the bundled baby was not in his arms.

"Thank you, Grand Maester, you and your assistant are dismissed."

"My lady, I must advise against this," he began, and she grudgingly let him ramble. "You are not yet at your full strength and may need attention at a moment's notice. Your safety is of utmost importance."

"My ladies have eyes and ears and mouths of their own. They can call you if need be."

"I believe it best if I stay, my lady."

_He would not argue this way with one of my brothers,_ Elia thought with a bristle, _nor would he dare it on my lord husband or the king._ "You have been most useful and of good service, and I will be sure to pass on praise of your duty to His Grace." She fixed him with a stare she hoped was demanding but knew it most likely just looked sleepy.

"We will wait without, then, if it please my lady." The great old bump in the road then shuffled about lazily and left the room with Maester Yevan in tow. Then she looked to her ladies. Faewyn was holding her son and crying.

The sight of tears made her throat constrict and her nose burn, but Elia swallowed the temptation and sat up straighter. "It's all right now, bring him to me."

Faewyn did not step any closer. She shook her head sadly, but not in defiance to the request. "Lady Elia, when you slipped away, your eyes opened wide and your skin turned to ash," she said in her high, sweet voice. "Your arms curled up and you began to shake, and I truly thought the gods were taking you away." She broke into quiet sobs that robbed her of her breath. Even when she cried she looked like a pretty nymph, small nose and high cheeks aglow, pale green eyes sparkling.

Dahlia gently took the bundle from Faewyn, who stopped crying long enough to look embarrassed. Dahlia then glided across the floor cautiously, as if she was afraid approaching too quickly would be dangerous to Elia. Normally the girl was quick and smooth, despite being tall and wide-hipped. Her small eyes flitted from the child in her arms to the yearning mother. Elia's heart fluttered and she put a hand to her chest.

"Your son," Dahlia said.

Elia took hold of the bundle ever so carefully. Until now she had not caught a glimpse of him. To see him tore down her defences, and she could no longer hold back the tears. While Rhaenys had inherited the dark colouring of her family, the Martells, the boy in her arms was very much a Targaryen. The wisps of hair on his head were silver and his soft, smooth skin was pale as milk. He was beautiful. Small, but not sickly. Holding him felt like holding the world.

"He only cried once," Ashara said, her voice ethereal, "when we took him from you."

Elia continued to study every detail of his face through blurry eyes. Were she awake she would have cried when they took him too, for that her child was born healthy and whole seemed impossible to her when she began her labour pains. And here he was, and the Kingswood Brotherhood, nor the Grand Maester, nor anyone else could take him away now.

Faewyn approached the bed but did not advance too far. "Was it quite terrible, my lady?"

Disdain leaked into her voice. "I was asleep for it. Grand Maester Pycelle saw to that."

The girl hesitated. "I meant the attack in the kingswood."

These three had not been with her on her journey south. She did not want to take any of her companions, but it was insisted that she take at least _some_, to help with Rhaenys or, gods forbid, the arrival of her second child. She chose her travel party herself, and if she were to be honest, she chose the homeliest, for it was a burden being surrounded by women far more beautiful than herself all the time. The ladies that had come with her were most likely headed home to their families on leave. It was a traumatic experience on the road, after all. It was best to be surrounded by loved ones.

Elia had not taken her eyes off her child. She stroked his cheek with a finger. "Only when I thought I would lose my baby."

"Lady Elia, you should know…the Kingsguard have been dispatched to disband the Kingswood Brotherhood, with two dozen swords." Ashara always spoke in a certain way that maintained the courtesy and dignity her family was so well known for, but she could never help the worry that leaked into her voice when she spoke of her brother going off to battle. Everyone reassured her constantly that Ser Arthur Dayne was truly the best swordsman in Westeros and could not be bested, but she always maintained that "Even the best of us bleed."

"And Jeyne," Faewyn cried, covering her mouth with her hand. "Jeyne was taken captive by that awful Toyne bandit."

She finally tore her eyes away from her baby. "They will not harm her," Elia said softly, holding her son just a bit more tightly. Jeyne was a slender maid of fifteen, a lady in waiting sent to her from House Swann. "They only ransom their captives. The Kingsguard will bring her back to safety." Saying it out loud helped her believe it.

"But what if that awful fawn woman puts the brand on her?" Faewyn became a mess of tears all over.

There had been more crying than she could stomach, and she was the one who had nearly died. "I would like the three of you to send word for my uncle. I should like to see him, if he is not indisposed."

Ashara approached Faewyn's side, to which the young, fragile girl leaned into an embrace that was not offered. Before leading her off, Ashara looked to Elia with a guarded expression and sad eyes. "His Grace has sent them off already, my lady. I am sorry."

_All of them are being stolen from me. _If her uncle was unavailable…"Please send word to my husband. I wish to present him with his son."

"Should you be left alone?" Dahlia said bluntly. "Pardon me, Lady Elia, I only worry for your health."

"If you were to do me one kindness, give me a moment alone with my son."

"The Grand Maester is not far," Ashara said, decidedly ending any more arguments the other two ladies might have on the subject. "We shall give you privacy."

As they left, Dahlia scoffed softly as Faewyn let out an ugly sob. The door closed and silence was the only companion for Elia and her son.

She slid down the top of her birthing gown and bared a breast. Despite her pregnancy, her bosom never blossomed, and she was told she would not be able to nurse her baby when he arrived. Such as it was with Rhaenys. But she would not submit to a wet nurse without a fight. She gently shifted the boy until her nipple was touching his lips. Without opening his eyes he stirred and languidly popped it into his mouth.

She was enraptured. The gentle weight of him, the way his brow crinkled like he was concentrating so hard on something in his sleep, the feather touch of his breath on her arm. It had been a year since she had a newborn in her arms, and she had nearly forgotten the overwhelming waves that took her upon first meeting a child. She wondered what his eyes were like, but she felt she already knew: a dark indigo, almost black, sad and knowing, holding a wisdom beyond any maesters'.

When she looked up she found the eyes she imagined watching her closely. She wasn't sure when Rhaegar had entered the room; even if she was aware of her surroundings he still would have crept up on her unbeknownst. The first time she had met him was moments before their wedding—suddenly he was beside her, eyeing her much the way he was now, with a gentle forlorn look. The stories of his visage did not do him justice. Yes, Rhaegar was tall and handsome and mysterious, with porcelain skin, silver blond hair, and haunting dark eyes, and stories were often exaggerated, but in this case the stories could not exaggerate his beauty enough. She was taken with him from the beginning…and yet every day she had yearned for a different life she would never know. Suddenly her grand oak bed seemed much bigger and she much, much smaller.

"I was sparring in the yard." Even his voice was beyond compare, not matter what he spoke. "Pycelle sent word."

Elia may have felt small next to her husband, but she knew him well enough to know what to say. "You want to be with Ser Arthur in the kingswood." Of course, as crown prince, being sent on a small dispatch was far out of the question.

"They left shortly after you arrived. I've been lost in thought since then." He let the air thicken. "I thought I may lose you."

Elia blinked and was rendered speechless briefly. "You were worried for me?"

"You were not well." He took a few steps closer, studying the floor. "I believe I've been wrong about the prophecy."

The first thing Elia knew about Rhaegar before she knew he would be her husband was that he was lost in books and scrolls more often than not, and one particular verse in his boyhood sent him down another path, and soon words and songs were replaced with swords and arrows. Many people who shared this story often told it in a mocking light, and Elia knew better than to ever broach the topic with him. But when they conceived Rhaenys, he had been very open about the prophecy. About the prince that was promised, the hero returned to the world to save it from the long, cold night. He believed he was this warrior returned, and he had a responsibility to become the great warrior everyone believed he already was. The way he spoke about it pushed scorn in the farthest corner of her mind. She did not believe in it the same way he did, but his passion and determination were objects of respect in her eyes. For him to change his mind now…"Why do you believe that?" she asked.

"I spoke with Pycelle. He told me you will not be able to bear me any more children."

The babe gummed her nipple and she winced. For some reason she'd thought no one else ever need know. A fleeting fool's hope, especially in question of her husband.

Finally Rhaegar spoke, drawing her attention back to him. "I'm sorry, Elia. I know how much you love family."

She quickly ducked her head. Her throat felt thick. "What shall we name him?"

He stared at his son pensively awhile. "Aegon. What better name for a king?"

She could hear something queer in his voice, like joy. There had been five Aegons to rule Westeros. The first came riding in on a dragon. What better name, indeed. She tried a small smile. "Will you make a song for him?" Rhaegar had made many songs for Rhaenys when Elia was bedridden after the first birth. He would sit on the sill and play his harp as if it was an extension of his hands.

"He has a song. He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire." He had turned to look out the doorway and stare into nothing rather than her eyes. "There must be one more. The dragon has three heads."

A different sinking feeling pulled her down now. As her husband turned away from her to take up his seat on the window, Aegon stopped his suckling. She must have run dry.

Rhaegar's fingers caressed the hair-thin strings on his harp, and soon the air was filled with another breathtaking, sorrowful song. Her son grew heavier in her arms as she thought of all the implications of the prince's words.

_There must be one more._


	2. Chapter One

**JAIME**

Since boyhood Jaime had always wanted to see the Red Keep in King's Landing. It was not as red as he imagined it would be; the stone was a pale red from the rocky fields that lay nearby nearly three-hundred years ago when Aegon the Conqueror ordered a proper castle built. The result was a tall and wide keep on the highest hill of King's Landing, and the only way in from the city was through two huge bronze doors and an even more imposing portcullis. Together the Kingsguard and their party of lords and knights entered the gates to the courtyard.

The men who had been wounded were led off by others towards the maesters' apartments to seek attention. Lord Crakehall went with them, riding next to the cart one of the smallfolk drove in from the kingswood. Merrett lay upon it, unconscious. Jaime never liked the boy, but he never wished such a fate for him. The strike had been sudden, coming upside Merrett's head. The helmet went flying, and the bandit did not hold back for his second swing. The sound that followed was sickening—like a rotten fruit being smashed upon the cobblestones—and the way Merrett sprawled out in the dirt after was gut-wrenching. In his childhood Merrett had toyed with other boys and often knocked them in the dirt. If there were gods, perhaps this was their idea of surmounting debt repaid.

"This is goodbye," Lord Crakehall said, eyes heavy and skin hanging heavier from his old bones. "I'll write to you of Merrett's fate. Write to me of your own. Earn this title."

Whether it was fatigue or hunger or discomfort in regards to his childhood rival, Jaime had no words to offer in return. Then his host for four years rode off without him. It felt like he was given room to fly for the first time. It also felt like he had been thrown over open air without knowing how to fly first.

His father Tywin Lannister had served King Aerys II as Hand for nearly twenty years, organizing the kings affairs, publishing his edicts, seeing to the maintenance of the seven kingdoms. Because of this, Tywin was often in King's Landing rather than Casterly Rock on the other side of the continent. Whenever he did return to his seat, Jaime was usually not there but in Crakehall under Lord Sumner's roof. As of today he no longer needed to stay at Crakehall. He was to return home for good. But first he would see his family in the capital.

The Tower of the Hand was tall, and held a winding staircase that led to the Hand's chambers at the top. The climb long and precarious, and at the end he had to pause for a moment's rest. When he rounded the corner he found a silent knight standing vigil at his father's door. Thinning black hair receded to his crown, wisps of what remained surrounding a severe brow jutting out over cold colourless eyes, pockmarks scattered across pallid skin and sunken cheeks like holes on an anthill. Ser Ilyn Payne was the vision of dread he was meant to be, and if he opened his mouth to scream at you you would find an empty mouth with a stub of a tongue where King Aerys had ordered it cut out. This man was the head of his father's personal guard but Jaime felt unsettled by him, regardless of safety from this stranger's justice.

"I'd like a word with my father," Jaime demanded.

Unnatural eyes still pinned on Jaime, Ser Ilyn opened the door and stepped aside, revealing Lord Tywin Lannister sitting at a thick oaken table, scrolls stacked neatly to the side and a single piece of parchment sitting before him, inkwell and heated wax at hand. Even more immaculate than his study was his appearance. The last time Jaime had seen his father, he had a golden mane that touched his shoulders. Now it was trimmed short, with an equally short beard. His hairline was beginning to recede. It only served to sharpen his brow, making him look as imposing as ever. He wore a plain velvet doublet of dark scarlet, simple yet sophisticated, and a golden chain of hands clasping each other at the wrist rested about his shoulders as if it had simply grown into his skin these twenty years past.

Without looking up from his parchment, he said, "Sit."

Jaime did so. Ser Ilyn left the room and closed the door firmly behind him. The _clank_ of the iron handle was louder than Jaime expected it to be.

Tywin dipped his quill in more ink and began to write again. "You crossed swords with Ser Maxwell Musgood." Jaime should not have been surprised his father knew of the battle already, but he was left stunned for a brief moment.

"The Smiling Knight," Jaime said stupidly. One of the most insane swordsmen in Westeros and the most infamous of the kingswood bandits. Most recognized him by his highway name with the Kingswood Brotherhood rather than his highborn one. He had scars from mouth to ear on either side, giving him a permanent smile. When he spoke he was eloquent enough, but there was always something frightening behind his words, no matter what they were, that made hair stand on end. Fighting him was like being attacked by four drunk knights with no form or balance, yet somehow each move was executed with precision. Jaime managed to keep himself from being slain, and even turned the tables on the knight before Ser Arthur Dayne stepped in. The madman challenged the Kingsguard to a duel to avenge Simon Toyne's death, with the pretext he wanted the greatsword Dawn Ser Arthur fought with. In the end the sword was won by Ser Maxwell, shoved through his ribcage and out his back.

"And you killed your first man," Tywin stated.

Jaime nodded, swallowed quietly. "I did." Big Belly Ben had been about to smash in Lord Sumner's face when Jaime intervened. Another bandit came to Ben's rescue so the fat mercenary could make his escape. Jaime parried and countered numbly, unable to think faster than his sword arm, and before he knew it the bandit was a mangled corpse at his feet.

Tywin dipped the quill again. A few words into his next sentence he spoke. "How did you kill him?"

"I decapitated him."

"Why did you do it?"

_Why? _It was not a simple answer, Jaime knew. Lord Tywin did not want to hear boasts of pride and power or admissions of fear or luck. "To protect myself" was not a sufficient reason either, though that was the first to come to mind. He took his time building his reply. "He attacked me and left holes in his defences."

Tywin let the quill sit over the inkwell and steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. His eyes were green with flecks of gold but stone hard and as cold as ice. Once at a feast held at Casterly Rock, a man made a comment about the roast looking like one of Tywin's vassal's wives. The lord stared at that man until the hall grew silent and everyone stopped eating. The man left the table shortly after, Tywin never taking his eyes off the fool until he disappeared from sight. He then made arrangements for that man to leave the Westerlands permanently. Those same eyes were on Jaime now.

"Men who can wield a blade are few and far between, particularly those low-born. Why did you not disarm him and take him captive for the Wall?"

Jaime clutched the arms of his chair, meeting his father's eyes. He stayed quiet for a long time, at a loss for what to say. Just when it looked as if Tywin was about to voice his disappointment, Jaime said, "He was fighting to kill me. The only option he left open was to end his life. The objective was to put an end to the Brotherhood. I put that priority first before secondary goals."

Tywin nodded slowly, closing and opening his eyes.

"Placing the mission first is of a lord's utmost concern. It is a foolish man who takes life as casually as dismissing his servants; if it does not serve a purpose posthumously, it serves as a disadvantage. However, showing mercy can be just as detrimental if its only cause is to spare a useless life." He began to roll up the parchment. "Ser Arthur Dayne knighted you."

Jaime's grip relaxed on the chair. It was earlier that day, after the Brotherhood had scattered and disbanded. They locked up the tunnels that the bandits had been using under the village. Jaime was crossing the square to help some knights take the last body to a grave when Ser Arthur caught sight of him and beckoned him over. Most of the blood had been cleaned off his white armour and blade, but some of it clung to him, and likely would not be washed away so easily.

"You are a formidable swordsman," the Kingsguard said as Jaime neared. He had shoulder-length black hair, the first signs of grey appearing here and there, with a face that always looked slightly sad. His voice was stone but like the touch of a feather.

Jaime felt his chest swell but tried not to let it show. "Thank you, ser."

"You were supposed to attend Ser Barristan."

He choked. Finally he managed, "I went where the battle needed."

Ser Arthur regarded him closely. "Tell me, when you took that man's life, how did you feel?"

Jaime thought back on the moment; the feeling was quite fresh. "I don't know what it is. What to name it, I mean, ser. Like vomit."

He nodded. "And when Ser Maxwell attacked you?"

_Bold. Powerful. Thrilled. I mostly thought of my sister. _"I was terrified." It wasn't what he wanted to say but it was what the knight wanted to hear.

"A true warrior never forgets that each swing of his sword could be his last. He never underestimates his enemy." Ser Arthur had a disquieting stare, something soft yet urging in his dark violet gaze. "Kneel."

There were still bodies nearby, blood a few inches from his feet, and what he thought was shit just behind Ser Arthur, but he didn't care, for he knew what it meant.

Ser Arthur raised his greatsword Dawn as if it were a beam of light rather than beaten steel. "In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to protect the young and innocent. In the name of the Maiden I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Smith I charge you with due diligence. In the name Crone I charge you to uphold wisdom." Between each aspect Ser Arthur touched Jaime's other shoulder with Dawn; for the last the blade was held above his head. "I charge you to never let the Stranger into your heart, though he may live in your shadow for the rest of your days. Rise, Ser Jaime Lannister."

And he had.

"And so now you will be returning to Casterly Rock," Tywin said.

His father had not smiled in nearly ten years, but Jaime could hear the slightest hint of one in his words. A smile broke free on his own face but he quickly smothered it. "Yes."

Tywin poured hot wax over the fold in the message and pressed the stamp of the Hand into the middle. It hardened moments after. He handed the note to Jaime. "Take this to the rookery before you take up the road and have the maester send a raven to Casterly Rock. It informs the steward that you shall be returning to claim your seat as acting lord."

Jaime accepted the letter with a hand he somehow managed to keep steady. This is what he had been anticipating since his knighting. His fingers tingled where they touched the note. "Do you have any wishes of me for when I return?"

"Do your duty as a Lannister." Tywin took another piece of parchment and held it down with a paperweight, dipping his quill and beginning a new message. It was as much as a farewell as any from his father.

Before he left the solar, Jaime turned back. "Is Cersei here?"

Tywin finished writing his sentence before replying. "Your sister has gone to the sept." There was a bitter edge to his voice. Tywin had never taken kindly to the gods and tolerated the fact his daughter was expected to.

Jaime felt a flutter. "Goodbye, Father." Tywin said nothing in return.

Ser Ilyn was waiting for him to stare him down when he left the room. The knight could not read nor write nor speak, but for all it was worth he could threaten with his eyes. Jaime was uncertain of what his brutish stare truly meant, but it looked like approval. Or perhaps it was just contempt like always. Ser Ilyn only truly lived for killing now. Given the order, he'd even kill Jaime.

Down the stairs, across the courtyard, past Maegor's Holdfast and up to the rookery, his feet were numb and quick. He met a quiet maester there and thankfully exchanged as little words as possible to have the letter tied to a raven that would fly for Casterly Rock. Once it was done, Jaime made directly for the sept.

All septs had seven sides, and at each wall was a representation of one of the Seven aspects. The sept in the kingswood was a mud hut with wooden slats beaten into the ground, but the royal sept was just a bit more grander than that, with each stone wall backing a statue inlaid with precious metals and encrusted with beautifully cut gems. This was no Great Sept of Baelor, but it was luxurious enough, with enough space to house a hundred or more. There were quite a few worshippers at each aspect, save for the Stranger, more at the Mother. A gaggle women were huddled together there, one standing before the rest. With a double-take Jaime recognized the woman must be Elia Martell. Of course through marriage she was a Targaryen but very few referred to her as such. She was the exact opposite of what a Tragaryen was: dark of colouring, short, stick-thin, flat chested, and looked like she was about to topple over at any moment. There were dark circles under her eyes. The way she looked up at the Mother as she muttered her prayers made Jaime feel sorry for the princess of Dorne for some reason.

The women behind her must have been her companions. A dozen stunning ladies to follow Elia about like dutiful pets. Amongst them he saw the woman they had saved in the kingswood—Jeyne Swann had been kidnapped when Elia's train had been attacked on the road. She was unharmed but her septa had been maimed by the Smiling Knight. It left the fifteen year-old maid grief-stricken and more skittish than a beaten dog. Even as she prayed she looked about her constantly, eyes flickering from one corner to the next. Next to her was a beautiful woman with long, thick black hair, a glint of red in candlelight, and haunting dark eyes. Immediately he recognized her features—Ser Arthur's sister, Ashara Dayne. Almost everyone had whispered her name at some point. It was impossible to go to any ball and not hear about the beauty of Starfall.

But she nor none of those women concerned him now. Immediately he sought out the Maiden, an expertly crafted ivory statue with a necklace of garnets and a wreath of blue sapphires in the shape of flowers around her head. Of all the aspects, Jaime would have expected Cersei to be there, for the Maiden was what she would relate most to. Finding the altar lacking in beautiful golden-haired girls, he sought another aspect. The Warrior, perhaps, where she might pray for him. Jaime found Prince Lewyn there, another member of the Kingsguard. He had been with them in the kingswood, exacting a bit of punishment on his niece's attackers. Him being here must have meant the audience with the king reporting victory in the wood was short and curt, and that he wished to be near his niece to properly protect her this time.

Jaime made a round about the dais, suddenly concerned that he had come too late, that Cersei would not be here and he would not find her.

The Crone was made from stone that even looked old. No jewels decorated the statue; instead High Valyrian was carved over every inch of the aspect from head to foot, even on the lantern she held in her hand. It was an ancient language the Targaryens spoke to one another and no one else. Their exclusivity associated the language with great wisdom, as the Crone portrayed. To his surprise he found a lioness in a golden gown kneeling in prayer at the foot of the aspect of wisdom.

The last time he had seen Cersei in person was when they were ten, nearly eleven. He was about to take up as Lord Sumner's page at Crakehall and she was to be summoned to court by their father to help attract an appropriate marriage for her. They were of the same height and just starting to look a little different; her hair was a few inches longer and her features just a touch softer.

"Write to me often," she had demanded. "Write to me about everything you learn, everyone you've met, every thought you think." She sent him off with a kiss on the cheek, and for the next week as he travelled to his new home he thought of nothing else.

Of course he knew she would have grown older, but he hadn't known just how much she would _grow_ in four years. The gown was cinched at her waist by a corset and from her hips flowed into a glorious satin train. The sleeves were long and embroidered with red flowers. Her shoulders were bare. Her hair was half-plaited, the rest tumbling down her back in languid curls that shone like the sun. When she looked over her shoulder to see his approach he saw her sparkling peridot eyes. Her lips, the colour of rose petals, were slightly parted. The line of her throat ensnared him.

The way she moved was so fluid he wondered if she had spent as many hours practising her walk as he had his swordplay. A companion trailed behind in her shadow, meek and insignificant in the presence of her mistress. "Jaime," she said. A small smile blossomed on her face and he knew he had never seen anything so lovely. "It's Ser Jaime now, isn't it?"

He rolled his shoulders and stood straight, hooking his thumbs through his new sword belt. "What do you think?" He turned his head this way and that. "Time to have that bust made?" He could think of nothing wittier to say. Inside he was growling and kicking himself.

"The sculptors here couldn't do you justice." She laughed gently, more of a purr. "Come, Brother. Let us walk through the grounds. We have much to speak of."

He offered her his arm and they left the sept quietly, Cersei's companion trailing behind them like a lost pet.

Once they stepped outside, Cersei broke into conversation openly, catching Jaime up with various political intrigues and other castle gossip. It was rumoured Jeyne Swann had a bastard spilled into her belly and that her septa now had scars like the Smiling Knight. The child born to Prince Rhaegar was named after the dragon who had built his kingdom: Aegon Targaryen. It was also rumoured that if Elia Martell bore him one more child, she would die in the process. Jaime couldn't tell how Cersei felt about that prospect; she sounded somewhere in between indifferent and intrigued. A new spymaster had arrived from Essos a year past and had created such a web of informers that it was foolish to trust anyone with any sort of information, especially out in the open. Jaime tried to make conversation based on these trifles but held so little interest his responses were flat and unimpressive.

Once she had exhausted her supply of gossip, she said, "Tell me, what happened to the other squire that you fought alongside? The Frey boy. Was he knighted as well?"

"Merrett." Even saying the name made Jaime's tongue grow thick. "He was injured during the battle in the kingswood. I don't think he will survive his injuries."

Cersei let it hang in the air a moment. "He was not knight material. He should not have been there."

During the fight, everything Jaime had learned about war, tactics, and swordplay seemed to wash away all at once, and for the first while he fought like a child holding a stick. He hadn't been injured simply because he found himself in the right place at the right time. By the time he crossed swords with men that intended to kill him, he had found his bearings. A few moments more and he too would have been sprawling in the dirt, blood pooling around his head. _It could have been me._ He swallowed the urge to say it.

"And what of you?" he asked, gladly changing the subject. "Has father made you a worthy match yet?"

Her lips tightened. "No."

They passed by the gates to the godswood. It hadn't been a godswood for a very long time—instead of a red heart-tree in its centre, a grand oak tree had been planted hundreds of years past. No one prayed to the old gods this far south, anyway, but the acre of sentinel trees made for a brief escape from the city around them. Cersei paused before the doors and looked to the serving girl several feet behind them. "Meet me back in my chambers. I want a hot bath drawn when I return."

"Yes, my lady," the girl squeaked before rushing away.

"Skittish little thing, isn't she?" Jaime said. _She reminds me more of a mouse than a girl._

Cersei had no comment to make. She guided Jaime inside the wood. All sound was shut out by the twenty foot-tall walls. Patches of light slipped past the leaves and branches, caressing the enclosure floor. No one was there but them. Cersei quickly looked about and drew Jaime close, still guiding him along the path in a leisurely stroll. "Father has made a match for _you_," she whispered fiercely.

Something he could not name struck him square in the chest, like a jolt after a drop. It felt exciting and horrifying at once, like he was fighting in the kingswood all over again. "He's marrying me off to someone? What for?" After a brief pause, he thought it prudent to ask, "Who?"

"Lysa Tully, that awful fish girl from Riverrun."

He had never met Lysa, and Cersei hadn't either as far as he knew, but the stories painted a big enough picture. She had all her features and parts about her, at least: she was said to be on the prettier side, slim and auburn-haired. Her wits were a bit lacking, however. Oh, she came off as intelligent enough, but without warning her moods would snap and spark, and where one moment you would be laughing together the next she would be wailing and cursing your name for eternity.

"He's even invited Hoster Tully to King's Landing to discuss the arrangement," Cersei went on, bitter. "Father seems to think this will make a good alliance."

_Why is it you_'_re so angry over my betrothal?_ Instead Jaime decided to ask, "How do you know of this?"

"I heard him discussing it with Uncle Kevan a few nights ago. The Tullys are already on the road and will be here within the fortnight. Our father was confident you were about to be released from your duties as squire and thought it appropriate that you take up your seat as lord with a wife at your side. Her sister is to marry the Stark beast and his sister is to marry the storm lord, so half the kingdoms would be united if he tied you to them."

She made it sound like the worst prospect for the future. For a certainty Jaime did not wish to marry Lysa…but if their father was arranging it, there was little he could do. "I'd better gain an appetite for trout, then. I'll be eating it for the rest of my life."

He could feel her flare up before she spoke. "That's all you can do? Make jokes?" Still leading him calmly through the wood, she changed her tone. "There is a way out of this."

He tread carefully. "And what is that?"

"Join the Kingsguard."

He gave a derisive laugh. "It's not like I can just ask for a spot. It's staffed with legendary men far better than I." Though the idea of fighting amongst them did pique his interest.

"You can't ask for it. But I can make it happen."

Amongst the thrill he felt suspicion. "How?"

"I have connections. There are always seven knights in the Kingsguard," she explained, all the while Jaime thinking _Of course I know that,_ "and just a moon past Ser Harlan Grandison died in his sleep."

Jaime burst out laughing. As they headed out to the kingswood he had heard of the old man's death but not the manner of it, and under any other circumstances would have acted according to his station at receiving such dark news. It was hard to be courteous when a man with a sleeping lion for a sigil died amongst his sheets and coverlets. Cersei shot him heated eyes but he could not stop his mirth.

"It's not funny," she insisted.

"No, it's a bit sad, actually," he said with another bout of laughter.

"Listen! Aerys will replace the old knight. He'll be wanting young men, _strong_ men to protect him and his family. Why not a roaring lion in place of a sleepy one?"

_Hear me roar! _Truly, Jaime thought his house's words were a bit embarrassing, but in light of his father's legacy everyone heard the roar of the Lannisters from one sea to the next. The name would carry weight. In skill he _was_ a good candidate as well. However…

"So you suggest this candidacy to your…connection…and I gain a place amongst the Kingsguard. Now I'm protecting a mad king—"

"_Shh_!"

"…a king…instead of marrying the Tully girl." _And not inheriting my birthright._ Men of the Kingsguard swore vows to forsake inheritance and never to take a wife to ensure their loyal service to the crown.Jaime and Cersei had a younger brother, but…the idea of inheritance falling to young Tyrion in Tywin's mind was likely on par with the chance of the lord requesting to be flogged through the streets before being pelted with rotten food and pissed upon. "Father will never consent."

"The king won't ask him," she said fervently. "And once it's done, Father can't object, not openly. Aerys had Ser Illyn Payne's tongue torn out just for boasting that it was the Hand who truly ruled the Seven Kingdoms." Jaime hadn't known those were the circumstances of Illyn's silencing. "The captain of the Hand's guard, and yet Father dared not try and stop it! He won't stop this either."

They were making their way back to the gates of the godswood, and Jaime sensed their conversation would have to cease then. To be freed from an arranged marriage and fight alongside his heroes was all well and good…

"But…there's Casterly Rock…" He'd been yearning for home ever since he'd left it.

She stopped and turned him toward her. "Is it a rock you want?" Her hands slid from his shoulders to his chest. The fierceness left her face, those red lips parting slightly again. "Or me?"

The throb in his chest and groin was powerful, robbing him of thought for a moment. He stared into her eyes, thinking he knew the answer but coming up short on admitting it.

After the silence became too much Jaime resumed their walk. They made for the gate without speaking. Before she opened the door she looked him in the eye again. "Meet me at the inn on Eel Alley tonight. Make sure no one sees you go. We'll continue our conversation there." When they stepped through the doors, the air became significantly lighter, and the Cersei he had been with moments before was replaced by an actress.

"I bid you leave, Brother. Take care on your travels." She stood on her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek, lingering only briefly. With a flawless curtsey she turned and glided away to the Tower of the Hand.

Jaime made his way out of the Red Keep with no regard for his surroundings. The way down Aegon's Hill was winding and forgettable. When he reached his inn he beckoned for a bath and a flagon of wine. He sat in the tub until the water grew tepid and the wine was nearly gone. _The inn on Eel Alley._

Eel Alley was opposite the Red Keep, on Visenya's Hill. Wearing his golden armour in that part of the city would have made him a fox in a chicken pen. He left his things in his room at the inn and instead wore a plain shift with a torn hood and cloak he bought off a drunkard for a few coppers. It smelled of wine and nights spent in the stables, but he wouldn't be followed in it. He could see the inn she spoke of at the end of the street.

A gale of laughter and hot air hit Jaime in the face upon stepping into the rickety tavern. Immediately he knew why she suggested such a place. _No one would ever think to find two Lannisters here. _Too many candles were lit, a stone oven was flaming away, cooking pots of stew, and the floor was simply _packed_. Young men, old men, poor men, high-ranking men, and _a lot_ of whores, half of them with their tits out. Jaime was rooted to his spot, and if he didn't have better control over his own mind, he would have let his jaw drop to the floor. These sorts of establishments he had heard of but had never seen. From under the table a man slipped his hand up a plump woman's skirt and her head fell back.

"Food, ale, bed, or woman?" the short old man beside the door barked over the noise. "Or all four?"

"Room," Jaime said. He hadn't eaten for a while but the general smell of the tavern turned him off the idea of trying the fare. He settled the price and received a key.

"Third floor, last door on the left."

Jaime made his way up the stairs, which leaned this way and that (and even had a step missing on one level) and entered his room. It smelled marginally better than the tavern downstairs, but was in ill repair. The bed sank in the middle, covered in a thin, unevenly down-filled duvet; the tapestry on the wall was faded in sections and had numerous stains upon it, some of which Jaime could not identify and wished not to think about; and the hearth was dim and dying, the only supply of firewood hopelessly damp. Jaime set to work trying to repair the fire and chase away the chill. So lost in his task was he that when the knock came at the door he had forgotten he was expecting it.

First he removed the stinking cloak and threw it in the corner. It was a long walk to the door that did not last long enough. When he opened it, he found a serving girl outside his door.

Light was dim but he could see well enough. The dress was undyed wool, simple, with a tightly-laced bodice that left small spaces to peek through, bearing hints to the valley between her breasts. A belt cinched her waist and made her legs look impossibly long. From under her hood her golden curls spilled forth, framing her fiery green eyes. "Cersei," he muttered, flabbergasted.

"Jaime." She took him into a fierce hug. She pressed her chest against him and he felt his cock lurch. He had half the mind to step back with her in his arms so that he could close the door. Cersei pulled back. "It's cold in here."

"I've been trying to get the fire going again," he said.

She looked to the hearth. "That will never keep us warm." Boldly looking into his eyes, she unlaced her bodice and slowly pulled it apart, baring her small, firm breasts. "We have more than enough fire between the two of us."

He grew so hard it hurt. When they were younger they played maester with one another, inspecting the differences between their body parts. The last time he had seen her chest she had mere rosebuds, slightly soft to the touch. She took his hand and placed it on her, making him squeeze. It was much softer now. They both let go a gentle sigh.

"Jaime," she whispered, stepping closer, "if you join the Kingsguard, you could be near me always, here in the capital." She stepped close enough so that she was flesh against him, lips inches from his. "You could have this whenever you liked."

He had dreamed of her often in their time apart. He kept her awake at night sometimes, the ache so strong he had to touch himself to find sleep again. All his dreams had been wild, passionate, primal, and in no way realistic. Except the way she was pushing her tongue into his mouth and groping his cock from over his breeches now was real, and the feel of her was so sweet he could have cried.

Only once had the thought _This is wrong_ crossed his mind. After all, the Targaryens married within the family for hundreds of years to keep the blood of Old Valyria strong amongst them. Why should the royal family be together openly without public reproach when the rest of the world was expected to do otherwise? He had been born holding the ankle of his sister as she was pulled from their mother. No matter what the world may say, he would never let go of her.

Their game now was nothing like playing maester then. Before it had been with a child's innocence and curiosity; now it was with a hunger. She did things to him he would have never thought of, and he boldly reciprocated. It was hours of exploration before she guided him into her. The feeling was unbelievable. _This is wrong_ was firmly snuffed out from his mind, never to be thought again.

At first there was pain on her face, but it quickly was washed away with ecstasy. The first time did not last long, and where Jaime felt embarrassed and defeated Cersei only saw opportunity. For hours more she kept him going, and whenever they lay in each others arms after and he drifted to sleep, she would wake him again and begin anew with a fervour just as strong as when they started.

Dawn came to them eventually. Jaime was drained, exhausted, unable to stand from the bed. He lay on the sweat-soaked duvet with her draped across his side. It seemed she too had finally tired out.

"Your connections…" Jaime muttered into her hair.

She waited. "Yes?"

He kissed her crown. "Tell them I should be on the Kingsguard."

She looked up at him. "I promise you, you will. Let me do the rest." She gave him a tender kiss that made time slow, and he felt it in his chest when he decided he was truly in love with her.


	3. Chapter Two

**LYANNA**

Lyanna looked over her shoulder and shouted, "You're riding too slow!"

"You're riding too fast!" was Benjen's counter.

He could never keep up. It was annoying having to wait on him but it was better than riding out alone. At least sometimes it was. Besides, if she rode out alone, both Benjen _and_ her father would be mad at her, and that was more trouble she thought better to avoid.

It was half a day's ride to Castle Cerwyn, but if they went partway and stood on the top of the hill, they could see it far off in the distance. Today was the day the southern parties would arrive. Father didn't want any of the lords' households seeing her in a man's riding gear, and he specifically told them to only go riding in the wolfswood, but that was only a half hour away, so it would be easy to retreat and make it look like they never left. Besides, he probably knew the moment he forbade her leaving that he guaranteed it would happen.

The hilltop was in sight. Lyanna dug in her spurs and bolted up the rest of the way. This time Benjen did not voice his complaint. The wind grew stronger as she climbed, pushing her this way and that, roaring in her ears, which only made her push on harder. At the very top, she had a grand view for a good three leagues in every direction. Castle Cerwyn was a brown smear to the south, bordered by a thin line cutting across the brown and grey—the kingsroad.

"Do you see them?" Benjen shouted up at her as he urged his mount up faster.

"No."

Benjen finally joined her side. "I can't wait. It's been years."

Before she was even born, her brother Brandon was sent to Barrowtown in the south to learn how to be a better lord under the old Lord Dustin. When Eddard was eight and she just barely five, Jon Arryn accepted the boy as his ward, and her brother travelled to the Eyrie. It was two years ago they had both come home to say farewell to their mother, but she passed away before they made it home. They did not stay long. Now both of them were headed north from east and west, and word had it they joined travel parties somewhere south of the White Knife and were fast approaching Winterfell.

"Do you think Ned and Brandon travel well together?" Benjen asked.

"Anyone could travel well with Ned. He has the temperament of stone."

"What about Robert?"

She scrunched her nose. "He's an arrogant lout. No doubt he's butted heads with Brandon." She had met the storm lord once a few years ago. Jon Arryn came north with his late wife and wards to treat with the Lord of Winterfell. Where Eddard was quiet and contemplative, Robert was loud and obnoxious. He went to great lengths to show off his prowess with his war hammer constantly. He laughed at the other boys and boasted about how he would do so much better at this task or that. She did not want to think on him or speak of him more than she was forced to, but she would not let her brother's pride be challenged. "That man may have antlers, but Brandon is the alpha of the pack. He wouldn't roll over to anyone."

About an hour passed with idle chatter but mostly silence. Benjen began to fret in his saddle, making his horse shuffle. "Let's go back. They won't be here for hours."

"Fine. Go back, then."

"Father will get mad if I return without you."

"At least I wouldn't be a whiny child."

She could practically hear his face redden. "Fine!" He stayed by her side. "Why is it so important to see them here, anyway?"

She laid her eyes on her brother, first with an icy stare, then let it thaw. She looked back on the horizon. "We could ride around the hill to pass the time."

"I'll race you!"

Without missing a beat she rushed down the hill like an avalanche, bent forward over her horse until her chin nearly touched his neck. Guiding her mount as if an extension of her own lanky limbs, the two of them left Benjen and his ride far behind in the slush.

Winter was finally coming to an end, so the maesters from Old Town declared. A white raven had flown to them from the Citadel far to the south to signify the coming of spring. It didn't really matter that much this far north—summer snows were not uncommon. Sometimes there was greenery and a little warmth, as was starting to emerge now, but the northmen never let themselves be fooled: Winter was always coming.

When she won the first round the game became best two out of three, then five out of nine. On her fourth turn around she caught sight of a blotch against the horizon. She slowed her horse and watched closely. A large train was making its way up the kingsroad, tiny banners flapping like a school of furious fish clamouring upstream.

Lyanna abandoned her race and charged up the hill again. By the time she reached the top the blotch became a distinctive herd of men and horses. The myriad of banners became visible, chief among them House Arryn, a blue falcon flying against the full moon. She also found House Baratheon, House Dustin and Ryswell, and even House Cerwyn. She scoured and scoured until she finally spied her own banner of House Stark amongst them. The grey direwolf on a white field blended in with the melting snow around it. After a long hard look, she recognized her brothers riding beside the wolf, two sets of long dark hair billowing in the wind.

Despite the consequences, she waved. As an afterthought she gave a long, loud _whoop_, almost a howl. When she squinted and shaded her eyes she could see one of them waving. She waved again.

"Lyanna! We need to go now!" Benjen said urgently from the bottom of the hill. As much as she wanted to deny him and join the party, she knew he was right. She rode down and wide around the hill, waving one more time before heading northwest towards the wolfswood next to Benjen, who was able to keep up with her this time. They didn't stop until the edge of the forest was in sight.

"We should ride in through the wood," she said, thinking of covering their tracks.

"Father is going to want us to change. We won't have enough time if we go in through the wood."

"Well, _you_ mightn't."

They went through the Hunter's Gate, which opened on the west side towards the forest, and they tromped through the courtyard towards the stables. When she approached, Hullen, the master of horse, was there looking even more worried than usual. "Your father is none too happy, milady."

"About what?" She slid fluidly out of her saddle. Hullen's son Harwin came forward to lead her horse away.

"You were to be back an hour ago to prepare for the welcome. Our guests will be upon us soon."

"That's more than enough time to prepare."

He gave her a sceptical look. Hullen was pessimistic by nature, but she could see it in his eyes that his uncertainty was correctly placed. Her hair was likely more tangled than a hawk's nest and her face dirtier than the swine pen. One glance at Benjen confirmed her suspicions.

"See to our horses and we will see to ourselves," Lyanna said as Benjen shoved his reins in Hullen's hands. "If someone asks for word of us, tell them we arrived a half hour ago!" She motioned to Benjen and they took off.

They raced back across the courtyard to the Great Keep, going their separate ways on the stairs when Benjen reached his floor. Up in her chambers Marta and Philly were sorting through her things. They set wild, panicked eyes on her when she entered. As the door swung closed behind her she had already pulled off her riding boots and was unlacing her breeches. "Is that tub still warm?" She nodded towards the wooden basin. Her father must have ordered it drawn, expecting her return much earlier. Winterfell was built over a natural hot spring, which meant acquiring hot water was no special feat.

"It went cold a while ago, milady," Philly said, regretful.

Keeping it warm once it left the pump, however, was.

"We can draw you a new bath, if you wish," Marta offered.

Lyanna answered by tearing off her jerkin and smallclothes. Teeth gritted, she stepped into the tub and sank like a rock.

Tiny swords stabbed her over every inch of skin. She gasped breathlessly, fingers curling into fists. She swallowed a shout as she dipped her head back and scrubbed the dirt out. Marta dropped scents into the tub and began to scrub her like a sword to a whet stone. Lyanna stubbornly remained silent.

"Are you all right, Lady Lyanna?" Marta asked, pausing.

"Keep scrubbing," she said through girt teeth.

Her skin was raw and red by the time Marta was done with her. Philly dried her hair and began to weave it while Marta fetched a simple ice blue gown. While Philly was lacing up her corset and Marta was tying her petticoat in place, a messenger came to the door. "Lord Rickard summons you to the courtyard, my lady," Tansy said hurriedly.

"It's good enough!" Lyanna said, pulling away from the women and making for the dress.

"Be careful, milday," Philly begged softly as Lyanna tugged on the wool.

"The kirtle." Lyanna met Marta halfway to put the final item of clothing on. It was a silver velvet covering, fastened with a blue belt. She slipped into her shoes and rushed out the door, Marta flicking more oils at her and Philly throwing a deep sapphire mantle over her shoulders as she left.

"For your hair." Tansy tried to stuff a winter rose into one of her plaits.

Lyanna swatted at the woman's hand. "I don't want flowers in my hair."

"It goes with the dress, my lady. The young lord would like it."

"I don't care what Robert thinks," she retorted, knowing that was who Tansy meant. In the end she rushed ahead, thinking she had won, but found the rose in her hair by the time she reached the bottom stair. She tore it out and threw it out the window.

Near all the servants and household guard were outside, lining the walls. The rest were in the kitchens, bakers and spicers and cooks, preparing for the feast that would be served within the hour. Grouped before the East Gate were the steward, Vayon Poole, master-at-arms, Rodrik Cassel, and Maester Walys Flowers standing behind her brother, looking just as rushed as she did in his thick grey furs and damp black hair hanging at his shoulders. Her father stood before them. He wore his hair half pulled back, and where it used to be a dark brown it was now thoroughly streaked with grey. His was the long, solemn face of the Starks, wrinkled and hardened, with some hint of how handsome he was in his youth. His beard had grown long since their mother died but in light of the visit he had trimmed it. It made him look like a stranger for a moment. His long grey cloak had always made him look more broad, more imposing. With each step she took she shrank in his presence.

"By your brother," he commanded, not meeting her eyes, instead watching the gate. She did as she was bid, tail tucked between her legs. Benjen shot her a sideways glance that did nothing but exacerbate it.

First came a few members of the Arryn household guard, bearing the banner of a hawk flying over a full moon. Then more banners followed, amongst them variants of battle axes, a mare's head, a reared stag, and finally the grey wolf on a white field. The lords came first, all of whom she had met before. Lord Medger Cerwyn visited Winterfell often with his daughter Jonelle and son Cley, who were with him now. Jonelle was a bit of a pudgy, daft girl, but little Cley was a good enough sort to play with. Lord Arryn she had not seen in years, and upon first sight he smiled at them, revealing a few wooden teeth. The new lord of Barrowtown, Willam Dustin, rode in followed by his new wife, Barbrey, daughter of Lord Ryswell. Lord Osfyrd Dustin had passed a month ago, and not a fortnight passed before the marriage pact between the Ryswells and the Dustins was solidified hastily, so Brandon had written her with an unpleasant tone. They looked regal enough together, Willam and Barbrey, but she could not say either looked overwhelmingly happy. Barbrey's uncle, Ser Mark Ryswell, rode in behind them. He was one of the few knights of the North, having spent the greater part of his time in the south with worshippers of the Seven. He looked almost identical to his niece, and despite his age, looked quite handsome to Lyanna, especially with the sharp blue eyes and clean-cut scar running across his cheek. She did not dote on him long, however, for behind him she spied her brothers.

Brandon broke into a devilish grin upon seeing her. He had let his hair and beard grow long like he was trying to become a Karstark of the east. Behind him was Eddard, with a much more kempt appearance and a quiet smile for her. After them was Robert, who had the most brazen look in his eye. His gaze made her bristle; the smile died off her face and she was forced to look away, angry for submitting.

"It is true what my wife tells me," Lord Dustin said to her as he dismounted. He had a curious slur in his voice that was higher than expected for looking so imposing. "You and your brother do ride like centaurs." Luckily Lord Stark was out of earshot.

"Thank you, my lord," Lyanna said, bowing her head.

Lord Arryn approached them and was sweet enough to kiss her hand, though he slobbered on her hand by accident. Still holding her hand, he said, "I haven't seen you since you were a girl. You've grown into quite the woman. The stories your brother has told of you do not do you justice, I'm afraid."

"Ned? Doing me injustice?" she said with a smile. She found the brother in question standing off to the side as if to hide in the open. She beamed when she saw him. "Excuse me, my lord." She stood before Eddard and refrained from smacking him in the arm. "Trying to make me sound boring?"

"Not on purpose," Eddard said gently. He had always been the subdued one, living in Brandon's shadow in every sense yet never letting that shadow mire his spirit. "I'm simply surprised every time I see you. You're as unpredictable as mountain storms."

"Even mountain storms can be learned." Robert approached from the other side. He locked eyes with her and grinned in a way that made her want to sneer. "And the fiercer they are, the more thrilling."

"You've been keeping at your riding, I see," Brandon said, saving her from having to muster a response. They shared wicked smiles and embraced. "You've become more horse than wolf."

"Then I'll have to see what you've become when we race later on."

He went to muss her hair but stopped himself. "You must have grown a foot since I last saw you. What are they feeding you?"

"Giant's broth stew."

He laughed. "And you, Benjen. You're practically a man now."

Benjen puffed out his chest ever so slightly.

Their father spoke, voice carrying over the yard. "My steward and his men will show you to your rooms. Our master of horse will see to your steeds. The feast will be held within the hour, in which you will be sent an escort at such a time. Friends, welcome."

The lords and their households began to disperse. After the crowd had thinned the two brothers approached Lord Stark who melted away into their father. "Brandon, Ned," he said, hugging them in turn. Each he held at arms length to behold. "Fine Starks, the both of you."

Robert ambushed her while she watched her family reunite. Though you would have to threaten her on pain of death to admit it, she felt his presence before he announced it. "You've grown," was all he said.

_Of course I've grown, you giant dolt. _"In more ways than one," she said defensively. She gave him a sideways glance but decided it was too impertinent. Looking him right in the eye, she waited for him to speak or excuse himself.

His smile was damning. For all he irked her, he was certainly pleasing to look upon. "I would like to ride with you sometime." He said it slowly. Something in her squirmed.

"If it please you," she said stiffly.

"Robert," Eddard said, coming to her rescue. Without another word her brother beckoned his friend away, both of them giving her two very different looks as they departed for their apartments. Brandon and Robert shared a laugh over something said as they crossed the yard. Betrayal struck her.

"Tell me my exact words to you." Her father's voice tended to grow quiet and icy when he was particularly displeased.

Lyanna steeled herself. "Ride in the wolfswood. Be back by midday."

"Now tell me what it is you and your brother did."

She lowered her head. "We rode outside the trees, but not far. I'm sorry we were late, we—"

"Do you remember what we spoke of a fortnight ago?"

Every one of them she remembered well, and each of them rankled more and more as days passed. "I have been arranging a marriage for you for some time," her father had said. "There were a few good matches to be made, but after correspondence with Lord Arryn, I've made my decision."

She stared at the table, suddenly aflame with nervous curiosity. Then it hit her. If he had spoken with Lord Arryn, there was only one person she could be married off to. "I'm to marry Elbert Arryn, then?" He was Jon Arryn's nephew and heir to the Vale. According to Ned, he was a gentle spirit and an impressive manager when beset with a task. As much as the idea of marriage tended to offend her, her immediate reaction to the prospect of being Elbert's wife was not an unpleasant one.

"No. Your hand is to be offered to Robert Baratheon. I will announce it when they arrive."

There was a moment's pause. "You're marrying me off to _him_?"

There was a flash behind his eyes. "Do not dare take that attitude, Lyanna. It will scar you in the end, and it will not be a scar to boast of."

_He's painfully arrogant. He doesn't have the right to be as egotistic as he is. He's so loud, he has no sense of propriety. He has no faithfulness…_"Why?"

"A plan of peace. Brandon will unite us with the Riverlands with his marriage, and your marriage will give us an alliance with the Stormlands."

"That's it?" She felt she had been struck in the chest by her own stupidity. Of course she had known from a young age that all girls were made a match by their fathers, and fathers cared to find good husbands for them, but the older she grew the more she wanted to believe that it only happened to other girls, not her. Married women in her experience did not get to practice swordplay and go for midnight rides. She could see herself manning the holdfast east of Winterfell, leading a battalion against rebel forces or foreign conquerors. So much time had been spent dreaming of the life she wanted that she forgot to remind herself what would come for her. Now it was here, in the shape of a stag with horns so big it was any miracle he didn't topple over.

"Did it have to be him?" she muttered bitterly.

There was forced patience behind his words. "Ned is very fond of him, and if those two can be friends, then the man has a measure of respectability about him. Not only will it be a good match politically, but you will have a chance at a happy life. You two are quite similar, in fact."

"I'm nothing like him." If that was her only chance of happiness, she was going to have a grey future. Winter had come for her, and it was there to stay.

Then her father took a softer tone. "That is what you see now…but the longer you look, the more you will see. Your mother did not think very highly of me when we first met. It changed. Given time, things will change."

Lyanna glared at the edge of his table. _If you knew me you would be sending me away to learn like Brandon and Ned, not handing me off to some idiot with land claims and a prominent jaw. This is not fair. _It wasn't unfair, either. Brandon had undergone the same fate a few years before. Both of them were resigned to their father's decisions. Both Eddard and Benjen would be as well, someday. Besides, Brandon could no more put on a dress and go to a ball, even if it was all he wanted in the world. The odd thought made the corners of her mouth twitch before she remembered where she was sitting, bringing the frown back. "When are you selling me off?" she said, trying to sound angry but just sounding defeated.

He let the phrase go with a warning in his eyes. "Once summer arrives, Brandon is to wed Catelyn Tully in Riverrun. After their ceremony you will continue on to the Stormlands, where Robert will reclaim his seat as lord."

A life outside of Winterfell was one she had never even considered. A life outside of Winterfell meant everything she had come to love and yearn for in life would be taken from her. There would be no crypts or broken tower or Winter Town to explore. There wouldn't even be a _godswood_. Only the Faith of the Seven reigned in people's hearts in the south. A stranger's land. At least when Brandon married he would bring his wife to Winterfell, to home.

"Look at me, Lyanna." He said it gently. His eyes were not as gentle. "I've let you learn with your brother, allowed you to go riding, and I'm certain you've picked up the sword, though I've turned a blind eye to it. Once Robert is here, it is done. Your childhood is at an end. Robert will not want to marry a girl in breeches riding about like a wildling and hacking at trees with a blunted blade. He will want a wife, as I have raised you to be."

"You raised me as a Stark," she spat, "not as chattel. I will be the woman I am, not the puff of a girl Robert wants."

Anger overrode what little patience he had left. "If you ruin this match for yourself, Lyanna, I can promise you your future will be much bleaker. I brought you up to be a daughter of the North. _Act_ like it."

She exploded from her chair and shouted, "Then I will!"

There had been a flurry of screams, shouts, threats and insults, and for the next three days Lyanna had been confined to her chambers. Afterwards she had apologized to her father meekly and wandered about the grounds like the obedient child her father wanted to see. When he restored her privileges again, she did not squander them. Especially not when her brothers brought her betrothed up from the south. She had been hoping riding about in front of them like a man might change Robert's mind, but from the way he had drooled over her like a halfwit dog told her it did nothing to dissuade him. Encouraged him, if anything.

"Tread carefully, Lyanna," Lord Rickard muttered. "Spring has come, and the ice beneath your feet is melting quickly." He left her to ponder on that.

While they waited for the feast, she demanded Benjen join her in the godswood. He had been standing behind her silently during her exchange with their father, and now he followed her just as silently. Benjen was not as quiet or humble as Eddard, but not as boisterous and strong as Brandon, either. He knew when to irk her and when she would bite back. Once under the heart tree, Lyanna threw off her cloak and extracted her stolen tourney sword from under the stone shoved into the hollow of the gnarled root. Benjen did the same. She stood glaring until he was ready before she assumed her stance.

She loved Benjen, and she knew it wasn't his fault, but that did not stop her from throwing just a bit more force behind that swing and throwing a kick to his ankles after that ridiculously pathetic feint. With each strike she imagined she was hitting Robert. _Want to marry me now, idiot? _If only he could see her at her most ferocious. Why hadn't she been more rude when he approached her? All manner of insults were flying through her head now. No, she would not admit it was his looks. Tall, handsome, and excruciatingly forward. It was repulsive. He was repulsive. Their future was repulsive.

"_Ow_! Lyanna!"

"Shut up," she hissed. She thwacked him once more and he yowled again. With an angry grunt she threw the sword into the trees and sat on one of the roots, seething.

"Lyanna, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Then don't tell me. Be a brat, for all I care!"

"Get out!" she shouted, rounding on him. At first he startled and took a step back, but seemed to hold his ground. Baring her teeth, she growled and launched herself at him. "Out! Leave me alone!" He finally ran off, hastily hiding his tourney sword under another rock before slipping through the gate.

She sat back down and stared at the tree with its great gaping mouth and blood tears. It was thousands of years old, seeing and hearing everything, the eyes and mouth of the gods. So she did not cry. Crying was for when you were hurt and your nose stung so badly you couldn't stop the tears from building. She was not hurt. She had been wronged. "I do not want to marry him," she whispered. And stared.

The grounds grew louder as lords and knights made their way to the feast. With her cloak around her shoulders again, she joined them. The hall was fairly large, able to seat near half a thousand men, though tonight there could be no more than a hundred. A dais at the head of the hall held a table for the most honoured guests; seated there were her father, the lord of the Vale, the barrowlands, and Castle Cerwyn, along with their wives. Robert was not among them. Instead she found him at the table filled with the heirs and other children, laughing at a joke Brandon had made—again—and sharing words with Ned and Benjen. There was a seat for her next to them. There was no smile on her face as she took it.

"We were just talking about your skill as a rider," Elbert said as she sat. He was a boy on the verge of manhood, with a wispy moustache under a rather large nose and wild, thick frizzy hair, but the kindest smile that made him look almost handsome. As she looked upon him she remembered the brief moment she believed he would be her future. "I was debating that you could take Brandon's place in the tourney for jousting."

"I wouldn't doubt that, actually," Brandon said, taking another gulp of wine.

"What tourney?" she asked.

"The tourney in Harrenhal," Robert answered from her other side, drawing her reluctant attention. He had this vague smile on his face whenever he looked down at her and spoke. "It's to be held in about a month's time. Half the seven kingdoms will be there. I'm looking forward to a second chance to break some lances against those southron lords."

_Of course you would._ Lyanna had nothing to say.

"Who won the tourney in Storm's End?" Benjen asked. Lyanna gave him a mocking look, though he pointedly looked at Robert and not her. Benjen had talked about nothing else for a week other than how he wished he could have been at Robert's tourney and participated in the jousting or the mêlée.

Robert looked pained to admit it. "Ser Barristan the Bold. Took me out before I got a chance to take on half the guests. I won't hold a grudge against the man, though. Terrific warrior. Ever get to beat your lance on a member of the Kingsguard, Brandon?"

"Can't say I have. But I will."

"You'll be going to Harrenhal?" Benjen asked, envy embodied.

Brandon smiled mischievously. "I will. And so will you."

Benjen lit up like a dry hearth. "Truly?"

"When we depart, we're all headed for Harrenhal. Father wants you and Lyanna to attend."

She wasn't sure if she scowled or not. "Me?"

"He thought you might like it," Ned said.

Once Ned spoke she knew he had been the one to suggest it. A smile was forming on her lips but she carefully replaced it with an impassive mask. Robert saw through it, though, from the smirk on his face. Tansy stopped behind Lyanna and poured a goblet of wine, which she began to gulp down, frantically grasping for ideas to set this man off her tail. With a pang she realized her brother had probably told the idiot everything about her character. _I'll have to be more clever than this._

When her father stood and motioned for quiet, her stomach turned over. As he began his speech, she downed the rest of her wine.

"It is an honour to host you in my halls," he said, briefly glancing at the lords to his side. "We are gathered under varying circumstance, some in good tidings, some in mourning." He looked to Lord Dustin, who looked sad yet elegant under that great mane of red beard. "But it begets opportunity for a brighter future. It is my pleasure to announce a new alliance between House Stark and House Baratheon. Lyanna, Robert." He motioned for them to stand.

Her legs betrayed her. She couldn't recall where she was looking when she stood—her eyes had glazed over—but she remembered the looks on her brothers' faces. Wide-eyed, mouths open, one boy shocked, one man laughing, and the other bemused. She wished Father or the idiot had told them as well, so she wouldn't have to deal with the reaffirmation that _this is the future_ all over again.

Robert took her hand and lifted it in the air amongst a cacophony of applause and laughter and calls of approval. He turned her about the room so that they faced everyone, and Lyanna felt like a piece of game being carted about for all to see. She lifted her hand so that only the tips of her fingers made contact with him. When at last he was done showing her off to a sea of men a singer began to play his lute and serenade the crowd, and people surrounded them to offer congratulations. Lyanna had recovered enough to put on the barest of graces and smile back, nod, thank those who spoke to her. And the more people came and drank and laughed, the less they saw her. Once Lyanna knew she was lost in the crowd, not Robert nor her father or brothers to herd her in, she slipped away and left the hall.

It was much quieter outside. No moon lit the night. Torches lined the walls, with just enough light to guide her to the quietest place where she could be alone and think. On her way down into the tombs, she grabbed a torch beside the door and slipped inside quietly.

The crypts wound far down into the earth, and the lower one went, the older the tombs were. The oldest kings of Winterfell were on the lowest levels, and on the higher ones the lords of the last three centuries rested. Statues of their likeness sat vigil over their bones, some with stone wolves lying at their feet and their swords over their laps to keep their vengeful spirits at bay. Lyanna visited the uppermost level and wandered down the corridor, stopping at a lord she couldn't quite recall upon first glance. She placed the torch in the sconce on the stone pillar by the statue and slumped down, hugging her knees to her chest. The chill began to creep under her skin but she refused to be chased out by it.

The sound of the ironwood door echoed throughout the hall. Footsteps rang out loud as a war drum. Whoever was coming for her had her trapped. Ruing the loss of her solitude, she gave a heavy sigh and turned to see who had come for her.

"What are you doing down here?" Ned said, concerned.

_Thank the gods it_'_s you and not _him_. _"Finding some peace." She looked to the statue of the lord. Memory came back to her. "Lord Barth."

He approached and sat at her side, studying Lord Barth with a careful eye. "I don't recall you being one for Winterfell history."

"I'm not. I don't even remember what Lord Barth did."

"I don't think anyone does."

They sat in silence for a while, the pain growing heavier on her chest.

"Benjen told me you've been…restless of late." He touched her shoulder. "What's wrong, Lyanna?"

"Your friend, Robert," she said, swallowing the lump in her throat before continuing. "He's incorrigible."

Eddard laughed, but it did not anger her. It was the laugh of a good, honest man, of a gentle disposition so few had ever known. It made her smile a bit, even. "You're not the first person to say that." They studied Lord Barth awhile. "I'm sorry, Lyanna. We always thought…_I _always thought you would be happy with him."

"Why?" she said, lip curling.

"You two are alike, in some ways."

"Does everyone think that?" She scoffed. "How long have I been an arrogant, bossy little idiot, then?"

"You never have. And nor has he. Both of you are strong, wilful, capable, and charming. He's been taken with you ever since he heard the story of Lyanna the Dothraki Horselord."

When she was eight she had crafted herself a toy bow and had taken to riding her pony around the yard shooting twigs at her brother and the castle servants. Her father had put a stop to it the first time, and the second to the fifth, and by the time he had given up the ghost she had moved on to Lyanna the Lysene Pirate. The memories made her smile, until she recalled her present game of trying to be Lyanna the Lady and feeling ill fitted to it.

Ned put an arm around her shoulders. "You can tell me, Lyanna." He was right. He was the only person she could tell, but the words caught in her dry throat all the same.

The boots on the statue were poorly etched, like the mason had started with the face and the body and was all but done with this forgettable lord by the time he reached his thighs. No one cared about Lord Barth, and they let him fade away. Did he love the woman he was forced into marriage with? Did she love him back? Was she the only woman he had known?

"Robert will never keep to one bed," she said finally, squeezing her eyes shut. _There. I've said it._

"What makes you think that?" Ned said, but she could hear the affirmation in his voice.

"I hear he has gotten a child on some girl in the Vale." She had heard it amongst the servants' gossip one day walking through the yard. Lyanna hardly held any esteem for such talk, but when she heard it a second and third time in another place, she found the fact burned into her memory, and whenever she reluctantly thought the name Robert Baratheon the word _bastard_ blazed alongside it.

He hesitated a long while. "I know you do not hold him in high regard, but he is a good man, a loyal one. He has been true to me. What Robert has done before your betrothal was done not knowing you were to be in his life. He thinks highly of you and he will love you with all his heart." He sounded sure of his words. Eddard had never lied to her.

She could only smile bitterly. "Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature." Above them guests were celebrating, getting drunk. She imagined Brandon was well in his cups by now and trying to drink Robert under the table. "Why is he fond of me? He barely knows me."

"There are few women like you. You're a strong woman. Robert admires strength."

_And an easy bed._ "You are mistaken. There are many women like me." _Some of us are just defeated sooner than others._ She stood and looked down at him. "I think we should rejoin the feast, before someone questions our absence."

He stood and embraced her. She clung to him tightly. Losing her home would damage her spirits, but if she were to lose her brother it would kill them. If she was to survive this, it would be because Ned was by her side.


	4. Chapter Three

**RICHARD**

"Have you met this boy before, my lord?" Richard asked as they rode.

"I have not." Rhaegar sounded neither doubtful nor hopeful on the prospect.

"A boy of fifteen on the Kingsguard. He must be the youngest member to be sworn in."

Ser Myles Mooton tittered, shaking his head of thick brown curls. Originally he travelled with his brother to the tourney, but made a point of finding the royal party on the road to join his old friend Rhaegar, for as quiet as Rhaegar was, William Mooton was far less desirable company, by the sound of it. "No, no. There was another boy once. Died within the hour, though. What was his name…"

"Ser Rolland Darklyn," Ser Arthur put in. "He has a short page in _The Book of Brothers._"

"Darklyn, yes," Ser Myles said. Richard felt a dawning at the name. "And, er, he served…"

"King Aegon IV," Rhaegar answered. "Rolland was older than Jaime is now. Received the white cloak on the battlefield he died on."

Richard chuckled. "I don't imagine the cloaks in that book stayed white for long."

No one found it as amusing as he did. In the silence Richard reached for his wineskin and took a surreptitious sip.

He wasn't quite convinced he was regarded as Rhaegar's companion, though the Targaryen had claimed as such. Since Ser Myles had been knighted a year prior, Richard had served as the prince's principal squire. Before him was Jon Connington, and both he and Myles were obvious friends with Rhaegar. Richard had been fourteen when he was made page. A bit late for most boys, but a great honour nonetheless, for Lord Donnel had had no better prospects for his son at that point.

It had been after a royal visit through the rainwood. Richard was showing Rhaegar the ossuary on the grounds and the great bone chandelier. When he was little he would often steal away into the crypt, making stories of all the skulls along its curved arms. Who was that man who received a javelin through his crown? The man with the cracked eye socket where the mace landed a heavy blow? The one nearly cleaved in two? Whenever the winds found their way in through the cracks, Richard pretended he was hearing the moans of the dead, and the clacking of their bones swaying together overhead was their song for Richard. After he told Rhaegar this, the prince led him back to the hall to request Richard be placed in his service. "He is of a mind fit for company," he had said, his sad dark eyes somehow smiling at him.

And yet, not once had Richard been able to laugh with his prince, drink with him, dote on this maid or that wench together. He was there to preform duties and exchange words every now and again. When he tried to imagine Rhaegar smiling he saw a blank canvas of a face where saturnine features would be. However, their entourage was large, and between his father and his wife and children riding at the front, Rhaegar chose to ride amongst them, these boys and men he named friends.

One more sip and Richard hid away the wineskin again. "Why do you think His Grace wishes to put him in royal service?"

"Jaime Lannister is a formidable warrior," Arthur said. His direct look made Richard wish he had just stopped talking. "I vouched for his name on the Kingsgaurd when Ser Jonothor suggested the boy take Ser Harlan's place. This young man understands the true reason for sword and shield."

_Which, undoubtedly, is some deep-seated philosophy none of us who feel joy could possibly understand_, Richard thought rancorously. Arthur was said to be Rhaegar's truest companion; Richard believed this was true only because their extreme dourness was unparalleled across the seven kingdoms. True knight or not, there was a garish, glaring flag placed on top of the whole Lannister affair. "But he is the heir to Casterly Rock, is he not?" Richard asked, despite himself. "Would that not…"

This time it was Rhaegar who looked upon him. No words were spoken. Now Richard could not keep talking even if he thought of something to say.

It was a little over a week to travel from King's Landing to Harrenhal. It would have taken a few days less, had they not such a large party travelling in large carriage houses. The luxury made Richard's lip curl but he made sure to hide it. Regardless, they were almost at Harrenhal. The Gods Eye lake was to the west, the island in the middle a giant's knuckles peeking up from the water. You heard all manner of stories about the Gods Eye, for no one living around the lake ever went there. If they did they never spoke of what they found. Richard had had a dream once that he was surrounded by faerie women with green skin, all smiles and giggles and feather-light touches. He fancied it took place on the mysterious shores of the island.

Richard kept sneaking sips of wine like water and ran out before they even spied the gigantic castle tucked away on the northern shore. Five gnarled towers reached up into the sky from within, each stunted and melted from King Aegon's conquest nearly three hundred years prior. The dragons he and his sisters rode razed the tremendous castle that had only just been finished after forty years of toil to complete it. Regardless of this, Harrenhal still had more than enough space to inhabit, with the Whents on the lower half of the castle and legions of bats occupying the upper. It was said to be cursed, but if it was, the Whents had reportedly not heard nor seen any proof of this. The previous families that inhabited it may have had different opinions from their graves. As the royal party neared, more and more gaily coloured banners could be seen lining the lower yards. Then the sea of tents and courts strewn before it. Immediately the haunted castle became the happiest place to be from the Marches to the Neck.

"I should rejoin my father," Rhaegar said, aloof. When he urged his palfrey forward, Arthur followed closely behind, Richard taking the rear after a quick farewell to Myles. As Rhaegar's squire, he was required to stay close, but even so, an unwelcome knot was wedged in between his ribs and his gut. He found himself falling behind.

The carriage in which Rhaegar's wife and children rode was tall and flamboyant, adorned in the brightest oil stains imported from across the narrow sea. It rolled along the kingsroad smoothly, carted by eight ponies wearing bridles and straps and terrets like rainbows strewn about in excitement. Along its sides were Ser Jonothor Darry, Ser Oswell Whent, and of course Prince Lewyn (the knight had scarcely left Lady Elia's side since she was mugged). Rhaegar led them on past it, more slowly than before, towards the front of the train.

Ser Barristan Selmy and the Lord Commander Gerold Hightower rode on either side of the king on his skittish mare. Behind him rode Varys, the master of whisperers, bald, plump, and powdered, wearing an emerald cloak with more furs on it than a bear, looking every bit out of place on his horse as he did in Westeros. He had come to court from faraway Pentos when Richard became a squire, and had managed to become one of Aerys's principal advisers, always remaining close to inform His Grace of what his little birds told him.

"Prince Rhaegar," Varys said in his high, sing-song voice, "I trust your ride in mid-train was refreshing?"

The king snapped his head around. To look upon Aerys made Richard feel he was witnessing something he ought not be. Platinum blond hair and beard grew past his shoulders and formed knots here and there, not having been combed for seasons. Poking out from the front of his furs were his claws that used to be hands, curled tightly around the reins, nails inches long and skin covered in scrapes and scars. The shadow of his handsome face somehow still clung to him, though now his cheekbones protruded severely and his eyes sunk into his skull. Those purple eyes became aflame when they landed on Rhaegar and his party. Richard felt himself tense. When he reached for his wineskin he remembered it was empty and feigned scratching an itch that was not there.

"Remain close," Aerys demanded of Rhaegar, tone broaching on threat. "I want you at my side for the ceremony." Lately the father wanted the son in sights at all times.

"Of course," was Rhaegar's flat reply. The air crackled between them. It had not always been so. More than three years ago the kingdoms had largely known peace because of their king. Aerys had been known to give in to temper and temptation, despite his sterling reputation—he would openly argue with his wife, had hit her in the presence of others, made lewd comments of other women without restraint, including the Lady Lannister at her wedding so long ago. They had merely been acts done whilst standing on the precipice of something much darker.

It began with a request. Lord Darklyn of Duskendale wished a town charter for his small folk; the king declined out of necessity. One pushed, the other snapped. When taxes rose, the proud house outright refused to oblige. The situation had come so out of hand that King Aerys took one Ser Gwayne Gaunt and a small task force to the castle to arrest his vassal and smooth out the wrinkle in his otherwise pristine kingdom. A knight from a supporting household slew Ser Gwayne and the Lord of Duskendale himself tossed the king in his dungeons, his guard put to the sword.

For six months Duskendale was under siege by the Lord Hand Tywin Lannister and king's men to rescue Aerys. A stalemate kept one from attacking the other, for if Tywin moved into the town, Lord Darklyn would kill his king. Ser Barristan Selmy took to the challenge of stealing into the Dun Fort unseen. Richard felt he was in the presence of one of the Seven whenever he saw Barristan. The man was past his prime by the look of him, but when pressed with a task performed it as if he had spent his life preparing for it. Lines in his face, heavy eyes, skin beginning to hang, Barristan looked like he was halfway handsome in his youth but overall not extraordinary to look upon, which made his skill that much more awesome to behold.

Days had crawled by as the knight carefully crept his way through cover of dark and storm to slip inside and rescue his king, slaying nought but two guards to escape. After that Lord Darklyn got to his knees before Aerys for mercy. It was on his knees that he lost his head. Then his family. Then his supporters. House Darklyn went from being known for the youngest knight on the Kingsguard to being remembered only for their defiance. _Such a price to pay when taxes could have been so much more affordable._

Richard thought about what would have happened to himself, had he been in the same place as Aerys. Small spaces did nothing good for his wits or nerves. Too long in one room and Richard had to remove himself or lose himself. Amongst his petty dreams of women and wine were the nightmares. Prison cells, dark caves, even his beloved ossuary, where he was maimed with broken limbs, flayed skin, crippling pain. Once he had dreamed the king had chained him up in the dungeons beneath the Red Keep. There was no torture, only solitude. Nothing to think of but how close the walls were and how little he could move. Richard awoke screaming in a pile of his own filth. Now he could not abide looking upon His Grace long. It was no wonder Good King Aerys became the Mad King. It had only been after his grandson's birth, however, that Aerys's obvious incertitude for his son was set ablaze. As to why depended on who you whispered with.

They wound their way through at least a mile of tents and encampments. Many of the attendants had already arrived. Spits were turning and roasting in nigh every tent, tankards of ale were poured and served and clanked in cheer, and soft murmurs of a lute and harp drifted across the grounds, nimble, uplifting and enlightening. People important and unheard of bowed and called greetings to the king's party as they marched on. There were hundreds of people and banners across the field. Richard's eye caught on familiar sigils, such as Mertyns, Morrigen, Buckler, Dondarrion, Cafferen, Swann, Wylde, Errol and Estermont, neighbours and friends all. And of course, his liege lord's banner was most prominent of them, the bold yellow field behind a reared stag.

The king's pavilion was erected by the small eastern gate that opened toward the kingsroad, just along the shore of the lake. Though a temporary structure, it was not a design to scoff at. The wood was polished, inlaid with amethyst, and silk streamers of black and red encircled a throne of gold and velvet. At its sides were grand oak chairs for the royal family and their attendants. To either side of the pavilion were long backed benches for the attendees. The lists roped off before them was huge, made for different competitions. The dirt was freshly raked, the beams newly cut and sanded, the tents made from fine fabrics, free of stains. This was a maiden tilt, ripe for the taking. It brought an unabashed grin to Richard.

A sigil of black bats on a yellow field swayed in the breeze as the lord of Harrenhal himself approached. "Your Grace," Lord Whent wheezed, giving a slow bow alongside his wife. "We are sorry to hear of Queen Rhaella's poor health. We wish her a swift recovery." He was the older brother of Ser Oswell, and in every sense appeared the larger man. Lady Minisa was a Whent at birth as well, marrying her cousin to unite the family in their giant's castle, for gods knew they had enough space for a family or two. She only shared a few features with her husband, and though not a grotesque woman, was quite big-boned as well. Behind them were their three sons, all equally as tall and as gaunt looking, and their daughter. Though it was clear she was a Whent through and through, she was actually quite pretty, in her own way. Where her brothers and her uncle had a permanent frown upon their faces, she had a whimsical grin, like she was trying to keep from laughing at something all the time. While her father was balding and her mother's hair was thinning, she had lustrous corn silk curls bouncing around her head, making her pale, narrow face a sweet sight. While the king and the lord and lady observed the appropriate courtesies, Richard stared at the girl until they made eye contact, then ever so slightly grinned.

"Your Grace, might I recommend a rest before we give Ser Jaime his white cloak?" Varys intoned. "There is much to be seen in this grand castle. I'm sure many secrets lay within."

"No." King Aerys was stone. "We will commence with the ceremony as soon as Lannister arrives. We do this quickly."

"Of course, Your Grace. Welcome. Our home and hearth are yours." To her credit, the lady never let the king's abrupt nature blemish her demeanour. With a wave of her hand her household approached. Only a handful of people were being shown to their quarters to prepare appropriately, meaning Ser Jaime Lannister would receive his white cloak, his crowning moment of glory, while everyone around him wore cloaks of mud and shit and would abandon him at first opportunity to bathe.

Richard dismounted when the others did. While Ser Oswell Whent embraced his family, a stable boy came forth to take Richard's horse away, making him squirm. He cursed under his breath when he remembered his wineskin on the saddle, then cursed to himself inwardly when he remembered he no longer had any wine. _If they don't serve any soon I am going to piss on one of their pretty tents._

Before another greedy stable boy could come claim another horse, Richard sought out Rhaegar's belongings. The cart was filled with as much armaments as it was tomes, scrolls, and blank parchment, the silver-stringed harp packed carefully on top. He made sure the cart and its contents were taken to the appropriate place, then rushed off to catch up to Arthur and Rhaegar, who, in turn, were following in King Aerys's shadow diligently. The Kingsguard lined up before the pavilion, the king and his son taking their seats. Richard was welcome on the pavilion but took the opportunity to sit in the long benches.

Without looking, Richard found himself seated with Jon of Griffin's Roost, who somehow managed to take up more space than necessary on the bench. Connington was only a couple of years older than Richard but already looked the part of seasoned lord. He had let a copper beard grow carefully; it looked meticulously trimmed as if each individual whisker received devout attention. He wore a fetching red and white velvet doublet with the griffins of his household clawing at one another from either side of the coloured divide. And was he a bit taller as well? Perhaps he was just broader across the shoulders and thicker with muscle than last they'd made acquaintance. "Richard. Well met." Even his smile exuded with self confidence and pride. "I trust your journey was well?"

"If not a little dry," Richard said, watching a servant dash between the tents, rolling a cask of wine.

Jon took his meaning differently. With a laugh, he said, "Our prince is not known for his lively conduct."

"No." Richard looked over to where Rhaegar sat, unblinking, watching the grounds before him with an interest, as if there was a story unfolding in the dirt only he could see. "But he certainly knows how to keep a man on edge."

Jon let it hang in the air briefly. "Yes, he does."

As Richard watched the Starks take seat in the stands and the flock of Freys flood into the yard from the horizon (_Look at that farm of children…Mother have Mercy, did Lord Walder ever fuck a lot of women_), Elia Martell timidly walked up the steps to her seat, babe in arms, with a dozen goddesses in her wake. One of them was holding Rhaenys, and where the little girl was dark and black of hair, the woman holding her was fair and dainty. When she happened to look Richard's way, he put on his signature grin again. He celebrated a small victory when she shyly cast her eyes away and back towards him with her own smile.

Elia handed her son to another beautiful woman behind her with hips twice as wide and breasts thrice as ample before taking her seat on the opposite side of the king. Neither husband nor wife looked at the other. The king was looking at them both in turn from the corner of his eye suspiciously. It was starting to be crystal clear as to why Queen Rhaella decided not to join them for the tourney and stayed resolutely behind in King's Landing with her small son.

A guard dressed in crimson bearing a roaring lion on a bloody field approached the gaily coloured throne. "Your Grace." He gave a bow. "I present Ser Jaime Lannister."

The king's eyes darted about as he dismissed the guard, as if flicking away a fly. When the man retreated with another respectful bow, a gold boy crossed the field, decked in white scale mail. Richard had half expected him to be wearing his gold gelded armour instead—the Lannisters were proud enough to mock tradition openly so. As Jaime crossed the field, his pride in his new white armour diminished in his eyes the closer he came. Jaime stood before the line of knights, his eyes fighting to scan the crowd but stopping short at King Aerys. He bowed deeply.

"Kneel," Aerys commanded.

With hesitating knees Jaime finally lowered himself, spotless armour and all, into the mud. He looked upon the king, face drawn and eyes unsteady. "Your Grace…I come before you today to swear undying loyalty to you and your house, to protect your lives and your honour. I wish to join your Kingsguard."

They were predestined words in that everyone who was sworn into the Kingsguard had to say what they were told to far in advance. Nevertheless, the world around them grew silent and still, as if even the horses were wont to hear just what would happen next.

A septon approached the young knight. Jaime looked like he was trying not to pay the godly man any mind but watched him warily anyway. The Lord Commander approached as well. The White Bull, he was named. Ser Gerold was old but by no means diminishing. He was barrel chested, his hair a mix of black and white and all the grey in between you could imagine, and he had a nose and mouth so abrupt Richard believed if the man tried to smile he'd crack his face in two. Drawing his sword, the old knight laid the flat of it on one of Jaime's shoulders.

"Ser Jaime Lannister," Ser Gerold began. "In the sight of gods and men, do you swear to defend the realm from ill will, to protect the innocent and infirm?"

As Jaime gave his consent, the septon flicked oil upon him, carried in a bowl hanging beneath a pot of burning incense.

"Do you swear to obey your lords, captains and king in all tasks, however dangerous, difficult, or humbling they may be?"

Again the boy acquiesced. Again he was perfumed.

"Do pledge your sword, your shield, and if need be, your life to your king, from this moment until your last?"

Jaime nodded gravely, as if he was intent on showing everyone just how seriously he had taken the idea of sworn fealty, a boy wise beyond his years. _Better than everyone else._ But still, he had to swear verbally, which he had not fully understood, by way of his prolonged silence. "I do."

Ser Gerold sheathed his sword and held out a hand as large as Jaime's head. The boy accepted it and was pulled to his feet. The septon held forth his arm, upon which he had a cloak so white the sun glinted off of it like some object so hallowed it was blasphemy to look upon it long. Ser Gerold accepted the cloak and graciously tossed it over Jaime's shoulders, fastening it by a silver chain across his chest. He turned to the pavilion, and in an effortlessly strong voice, declared, "Ser Jaime Lannister, Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard."

A roar rose up around them. Lord Whent's daughter was positively beaming, calling out congratulations to brave ser knight. Men from across the realm took to their feet to applaud the youngest knight to grace the Kingsguard. Even Rhaegar was clapping, as slow and unmoving as it was. The only one not celebrating was King Aerys. He sat with stirring eyes, as if willing the celebrating to end.

The remaining five Kingsguard approached to embrace their new Sworn Brother. Prince Lewyn kissed Jaime's cheeks. Jonothor Darry favoured a large, boisterous hug, and Ser Arthur carefully gripped Jaime's hand and wrist, clapping him on the shoulder. They shared a longer moment than the others. All seven faced their king and gave respectful bows. In return Aerys stood and stepped down from the pavilion, followed by Rhaegar, Elia, and her flock of hens. Varys scuttled behind them, as well as old Maester Pycelle and the master of laws, Jeswick Manning. Richard left the benches and joined Rhaegar's side. A horde of lords and ladies flocked around the Kingsguard to welcome Jaime.

Rhaegar and Richard did not interact with anyone in the crowd. Many houses were greeting each other, old friends and friends in the making. It was hard not to see Robert Baratheon, for he laughed louder than a giant and towered over every other man and woman in the crowd. He looked every bit as fierce as Richard had heard, and just by the way he clapped his friends on their shoulders told Richard he was a man he would be grateful to call lord. There was a girl beside him, of whom Richard only caught glimpses of between passing strangers. She had long, black hair, grey eyes, and a wild sort of look about her. Richard would have thought her pretty if not for her scowl that could chill blood. As he tried to name the men and women gathered about him, he found he recognized few and knew of even less. While he tried fruitlessly to place characters to their faces, he caught sight of a buxom black haired beauty weaving through the festivities with a flagon of wine.

His mouth felt inexplicably drier than before. At his side Rhaegar was slowly scanning the crowd, barely aware of Richard's presence. The squire began to weave through the meandering crowd towards the voluptuous prize.

Instead of focusing on faces he passed, he studied their surcoats. A flayed man on a pale pink field stopped him in his tracks at one point. The man bearing it was young, around Richard's age, but was far more unfortunate looking, with unsettling, colourless eyes, which stared Richard down as if trying to peel skin away by sight. A man with a cornucopia spilling forth a harvest actually bid him hello. Was he from the Crownlands or the Reach? Before Richard could decide he passed Elia Martell embracing a man who could only be her brother, Oberyn Martell. He had a nose as sharp as his widow's peak, and a dark stare sharper still. Though when he placed it on Richard something sly slid behind it. Richard made sure to leave his sight quickly, and _oh thank the gods_ he found the serving girl.

"I don't suppose you have cups to fill for me, do you, sweetling?" Richard said behind her, bending to say it straight into her thick curls.

She looked over her shoulder into his eyes. Oh, but was she ever a woman worth hunting. Large, round brown eyes, a small button nose, small mouth with pouting lips that made the most teasing smile. Her skin was a shade darker than Richard's, her scent honey and flour, her body tantalizing. "Ah, but I do, m'lord. They're overflowing."

_Gods, have mercy._ "Would my lady be willing to give a taste?" Richard was only half jesting. His eyes switched between her low-cut bodice and into the large, round flagon.

"I'm no lady." She started to slip away, making him tense. "But if my lord is serious, he might find me wandering the halls at the feast tonight. I might be able to give him a taste then."

As she disappeared between a man wearing a red apple and one with a black horse's head, Richard felt a small, fiery demon gnawing at his gut. He would have to find her and her sustenance later, for a certainty.

"Richard." He turned to find Ser Arthur at his shoulder, towering over him like a white mountain with a dark storm looming overhead. "The king summons you."

With a swallow, Richard nodded and followed. Arthur had no trouble wending through the crowd like Richard did; men and women naturally parted for the knight. They were free of the masses shortly and swiftly entering the eastern gate of Harrenhal. Beneath the towers Richard felt small, climbing up into the heavens as they did, five gnarled fingers clawing out from a grave that lived on. Arthur led him into the nearest and drew him up and up and up.

A game. A serious one at that, in the king's eyes. Richard had never attended King Aerys, and could see no other purpose of going to him other than preventing a vicious, fictitious plot of Rhaegar's from being hatched. _Do you truly live in fear of every shadow you see?_ The light played tricks on everyone's eyes, but to Aerys the light was a blinding flare. Richard chilled when he pictured the king in the dungeons, screaming when another shadow approached, another torturer.

The king's bed was made in a huge, cold chamber, not unlike the dungeons beneath the Red Keep. Ser Arthur showed Richard in and stood guard outside the door. Varys stood near the mouth of the room, nodding his bald head at Richard, coy smile on his plump face. The king was standing at the heart with a Harrnehal servant, watching the boy build a large fire.

"More," the king said, though the flames were already overwhelming. Carefully, the child slipped another handful of twigs into the inferno, quickly snatching his hand away, before throwing a log into the mess and lurching back. Once a blaze was raging, Aerys flicked away that fly again, sending the boy away. Then he got on his hands and knees to look under the bed, hair and beard kissing the dirty floor. Then he flung back the sheets to see what lay beneath them. Under the pillows, over the canopy, in the chest, the vanity, the chamber pot. Once he was satisfied the room was secure, he turned, resting his horrific stare on Richard, and all he could hear were the screams from a dungeon so far away.

"Tell me what my son has been doing in my absence."

Richard shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Your Grace?"

"People he sees. What he speaks of. What he plans to do with his wife."

_What he plans to do with his…_"I'm sorry, Your Grace, I'm not aware of any of Rhaegar's future plans or thoughts."

"Varys would say otherwise." Richard only dared glancing at the spymaster through the corner of his eyes. "You attend to him, do you not? You see his letters and personal effects. You spend a great deal in the presence of he and his flock of doting lordlings and knights. What scheme have they planned against me here?" He approached so suddenly Richard half expected to be bowled over. "Why has he come to Harrenhal?"

_That much I know. _It was something he could never share, though, not utterly. Not everyone reacted the same way. "He came to the tournament seeking…escape, Your Grace."

Aerys eyed him like he was an outrageous buffoon. "Escape. Escape?"

"He was grieved by the news of Lady Elia's…condition, and wanted to set his mind off it awhile. He thought the tournament would be a sure way of making new friends and renewing his spirits."

"Bah. New friends. Spirits. You know nothing of Rhaegar."

"Perhaps it's not far off from the truth, Your Grace," Varys said, soft as a baby's lullaby. "Based on what we've discussed, Rhaegar may need those things above all else, at present."

A Harrenhal servant and a boy of Aerys's returned with a plate of cheeses and a flagon of wine, condensation dripping off the side like weeping tears. Richard did a double take as if catching sight of another beautiful woman. When the goblets were poured and the cheese served, Aerys motioned impatiently for the boy to try it. He must have seen Richard staring, for he said, "Wait, no. Let him try the wine." The king picked up a goblet and waved it impatiently at him.

Despite the insult, the preposterous nature of the idea, and all the implications of it, Richard gladly accepted the goblet, and without hesitation drained half his cup at an alarming speed. The dark, throbbing demon that burned inside him was instantly doused, and again the weight on his shoulders was lifted, the air seemed more breathable, the crackling of the hearth less like a growl and more like a maiden's song. His sigh was one of such content that Aerys seemed immediately appeased, and took a dainty sip of his own wine. Varys's sip was daintier yet.

Now at ease, Richard felt he could handle his king more fluidly. "May I speak plainly, Your Grace?"

"No."

"Ah, but Your Grace, our young squire here may have quite helpful information to share with us," Varys suggested.

"He'll not speak it plainly, no matter how helpful. Tread carefully, boy," Aerys said, watching him from over the rim of his goblet.

Richard swallowed his words. _Your son is full of spirit and love. So much so that he wishes his friends to feel the joy he cannot. He came here to see us all joyful while he searched for a new answer to his prophecy. _It was enough to say it to himself. Reassurance that he belonged here was comforting, even if it did not come from another's mouth. He made show of taking a pensive pause to prove to Aerys he was thinking on the truth. "He hasn't spoken of Elia since she gave birth, and, well…I don't believe he visits her anymore. He may be seeking…_friendship_."

"That he no longer warms his wife's bed is well known, but…this is a helpful perspective." Varys smiled at him. Richard felt a twist in his gut.

How the king reacted to this, Richard could not say. Aerys stood unblinking, unmoving, and looked to be not breathing for a long while. When he moved Richard flinched. "This is a royal command." Aerys pointed at him with a gnarled finger and jagged fingernail. "You will follow Rhaegar diligently. You will find me information on what he is planning. You will deliver it to me without taint or deception, and I will see that you are well rewarded."

The _if not_ was louder than the rest. Richard nodded gravely. "Of course, Your Grace." Despite his efforts, his voice broke. To cover it, he drank deeply. No wine had ever tasted so sweet.

"Give him more," the king ordered the servant.

Richard held out his cup, only briefly feeling like a whore.


End file.
